The Man Who Sang
by Nowun
Summary: Cellorin meets Lan Mandragoran, a lesson in sword fighting.


The Man Who Sang  
  
Cellorin waited patiently outside the door to the room occupied by Rand and his friends. He had his head cocked to one side as he sat cross legged on top of a long hall table. The table held vases of flowers to both sides of him. He held his head in one hand, staring at the door not three paces away.  
  
The man is in for it now, Cellorin thought. A mirthful smile crossed his face. Three women confess their love for him, and they herd him to where they can skin him alive in peace, he thought sardonically. Or maybe he'll get lucky this time. Just as he thought this, the door swung open to admit a repulsive middle aged man who had warts liberally dotted all over his face. This could only be Rand's disguise, Cellorin thought.  
  
"Dragon," Cellorin said quietly in welcome. He knew that only Rand could hear him, considering that Rand held saidin and his senses were predictably acute. Rand only looked at him coldly as he passed into the hallway, trailing three women behind him. Aviendha gave him a murderous glare, without a hint of curiosity in those fiery eyes. Min glanced at him with a mix of curiosity and mirth, but then her face turned blank as she saw visions and symbols storming around his head. Cellorin guessed what she saw, and gave her a small wave with his hand. She shuddered and walked faster down the hallway. Elayne, seeing Min, looked at him down her nose. She brought every scrap of dignity and pride into the way she walked elegantly down the hallway, as if she was commanding respect and total acquiescence to her every whim because she simply existed. Cellorin chose to act as if she didn't exist, and only two women had trailed Rand as he left the room. This obviously got her into a temper and she stalked after Rand down the hallway.  
  
Nynaeve came slowly out of the room, hands clasped in front of her. She looked like a calm mother who had found her son doing something wrong. How long will it take these people to learn that they will never manipulate me, Cellorin thought tiredly. He simply looked at her with a hint of expectance.  
  
"I command where my warder goes, and I command him not to converse with you in anyway or engage in any activities with the likes of you." she said haughtily with a light of satisfaction in her eyes.  
  
For a long moment Cellorin simply looked her in the eye until the light of satisfaction faded considerably. "Just because it is not your idea does not mean it is a bad one, Nynaeve. You know. you can be a moldy old hag when you want to be. Lan swore to defend you with his life, and you reward him by yanking his chain every time you want to cause other people stress. You are no true Aes Sedai, and if you were I would expect nothing less from a haughty woman who thought she knew better than others just because she can channel. The man wants to become more capable at defending your life, that's fine. As he once said himself you cannot tell him not to defend you anyway he could. You can come and watch if you like, but you cannot break his oaths as a Warder." he said firmly with a hint of disappointment on Nynaeve's part. What do you say to that? HAH! he thought. Yet, his face remained a perfect example of seriousness in its purest form.  
  
"I will only come because I choose to, and not because of your endless efforts to manipulate all those around you, Sword Bard.", she said less haughtily than before. Cellorin only gave his best all knowing smile in response. It infuriated her.  
  
"Lead the way, Lan." suggested Cellorin with a mocking flourish of his hand. Nynaeve and Lan filed out of the room, and Lan took the lead as they walked the opposite way Rand had gone, down the hallway.  
  
The practice room Lan had picked was monstrously huge. The practice floor was a soft quilt of a strange very fine thatch. Silk embroidery ran borders between the tiles of the woven fine thatch squares. The practice area was immense, the size of the common room of a large inn. When they first stepped into the room there was a slim hollow rectangular lower floor, lower then the practice area. It encompassed the entire practice mat. It was made of dark wood. Cellorin guessed that it was to put your shoes so as not to damage the fine thatch mat. After their shoes were taken off, Lan and Cellorin stepped up onto the practice area. All along the walls different weapons were lying on hooks and shelves jutting out from the walls. Their was every conceivable type of sword, dagger, axe, spear, halberd, mace, bow, and javelin laying flat along the walls. The ceiling was a sea of lamps dangling from chains, spreading its light eerily onto the practice ground.  
  
"It's a fitting place to teach you, al'Lan Mandragoran." Cellorin said as he explored the room with his eyes. He could feel Lan tense; even though Cellorin had his back turned.  
  
"First blood or disarming, and then we'll see who teaches who Sword Bard.", Lan said in quiet challenge. Cellorin could hear Lan slowly unsheathing his sword, the sword wielded by the kings of Malkier.  
  
"Wait. First blood and disarming, how about that, Borderlander?" said Cellorin as he unsheathed his slightly curved broadsword. He hefted it as if it was made of wood. Cellorin turned to face towards Lan, but Lan had already made his move.  
  
Lan had thrust his sword at Cellorin's heart. Cellorin jumped back landing in the One Legged Frog stance. They stood poised on the mat, for a full minute. Nynaeve made an impatient noise, standing over by the door. Cellorin settled into the void, his face going from complete focus to a blank slate. He floated in the void, free from thought, free from emotion. He settled into the Cat's Prowl stance, and struck. He unleashed a barrage of stab and slash combinations that would dazzle the spectator's mind. His moves were fluid, his body fluid, his mind fluid. Everything was as fluid as running water, and just as fast. Cellorin danced across the practice ground, unaware of the world, unaware of Lan Mandragoran. Unaware that Lan Mandragoran was struggling for his life, as everything he would have expected from his opponent, everything that he had learned, was useless in this fight. Cellorin's eyes fell closed as he danced. At times, he danced slower, letting Lan catch his breath as Cellorin delivered strike after strike, always unpredictable, always on the edge. Other times, he picked up the tempo, releasing deadly combinations that would kill a man a mite less skillful than Lan. He did all this with a face devoid of passion, anger, or even a blank coldness. He did it with a passive almost sleeping face. Cellorin danced in a way purer than the sword dancing of this day. He did not move from strike to strike, stance to stance, block to block. Everything was just one motion. The positioning of his feet was one with the swinging of his sword. The alignment of his shoulders changed with the position of his waist. It was all fluid motion, and it never stopped. To Cellorin, this was not a fight, this was not a skirmish, a school house brawl. This was Cellorin, alone in a room, devoid of life other than himself, dancing to a tune that sang from his sword. Finally, a thought crossed the wide, vast sea of emptiness.  
  
First blood, and disarm, the thought conveyed before losing intensity. Without pause, Cellorin deftly flicked his sword under Lan's sword grip and the sword flew into the air. In one motion, Cellorin caught the sword as the other nicked Lan's ear. Then he stopped, with his hands to his sides. His eyes were still closed. The passivity on his face faded as his consciousness arose. His eyes flew open to see Nynaeve between Cellorin and Lan. Her arms were outstretched, to protect Lan. Her eyes were a strange mix of determination and.could it be?...fear? Lan was transfixed by a drop of blood on his hand. His ear was dripping blood onto his shoulder.  
  
Cellorin lowered the two swords in a sign of aquiescence, or ending of the fight.  
  
"Step away, Nynaeve. I will not hurt Lan. If I had wanted to, there would be nothing you can do to stop me.", Cellorin said calmly. His voice echoed along the walls of the vast fighting room. Suddenly, Cellorin felt the tingling sensation on his back that told him she was wielding saidar. He flung intricate webs of defense around himself, blocking a swarm of weaves of air trying to ensnare him and hold him. Lan knew nothing of what was going on around him, and neither Nynaeve or Cellorin gave any hint that anything was happening. Slowly, Nynaeve's face grew into a mask of determination. The flurry of weaves grew into a storm. Yet, Cellorin never blinked as he brought up the intensity of his defense. Then suddenly and decisively, Cellorin destroyed her weaves with one swipe, shielded her, and lay his weaves gently enclosing her in a cocoon of air. "Please, step away Nynaeve. I will not hurt Lan.", he repeated earnestly. He let go of the filthy sweetness of saidin and motioned a hand towards the door.  
  
"Go, please Nynaeve", Lan said gently. "No harm will come to me." He put a hand on her shoulder, almost in caress. Nynaeve's arms fell to her sides, she seemed to quiver under his touch. Nynaeve was angry at herself at how a man could manipulate her so, but there was a touch of blush in her face as she walked off the practice floor.  
  
"Some wife you have there Lan.", he said good naturedly, as he tossed Lan his sword. Lan's lips quirked into the beginning of a smile, but his eyes never left its coldness. Cellorin drew himself up and regained seriousness. "The reason you lost, Lan, is that you had met with a technique not known to man since the Age of Legends. It is a higher form of sword dancing. A purer form. It was created in the days where sword fighting was not a necessity, but a sport. The people of today remember and teach what pieces that had not been swept away on the winds of time. The pure form of sword dancing cannot be taught to someone who does not have a considerably great knack for concentration. When you are fighting you become one with your surroundings, one with your opponent. In the purer form, you become the surroundings. You can manipulate everything that is happening around you to a small degree. That is why I knew exactly how the blade would arc out of your hand and into mine. When you become the surroundings around you, you leave your body. It becomes a vessel, a puppet manipulated by yourself outside your body. In the purest form of sword dancing you lose a degree of awareness. You will not notice if a servant walked in to clean this practice room. You will not notice if Nynaeve here was trying to get your attention. You would only understand living things in two ways. Threat and non threat. The practice of this kind of sword dancing is addictive. Especially, to people coming out of depression or the death of someone very close to them. It is a way to escape their own feelings of loss and self blame. It is most addictive to people who feel no self worth, because usually they do not want to go back to their body thinking they do not deserve to live. When fighting in the purest form, your soul leaves your body, leaving only animal instinct and training that was branded into you. Not so different from people who leave the ways encountering Machin Shin. Not so different from the Gray Men. Yet through this form of fighting, you can become near invincible. Even to people who can channel." Cellorin explained.  
  
"What about the music?", Nynaeve asked. Her voice came faintly from the other side of the room.  
  
Cellorin smiled. "That is one of the more lighter finer points of this kind of sword dancing. This is why it was so popular in the Age of Legends. An oddity, really. The music is how you compel your body into doing what you want. Each note, chord, and tone controls the way you move your body. Often the song conveys what is on your mind, or expresses the intensity of your emotions. That is why they called me Sword Bard. I play music through my sword. I was once a performer."  
  
"The music was so sad.", Nynaeve whispered to herself, and flinched. She was bewildered that she spoke her thoughts. Cellorin looked at her with an expressionless stare that would shame any Aes Sedai. He promptly turned to Lan and said.  
  
"I will teach you the Song , Lan, but in turn I wish you to promise me something. I want you to swear on your life that you will not abandon your body when using the Song. I would also want you to swear to never teach Dragon the Song. He is already near invincible, and the way he is going teaching him the Song will only make him move faster down the wrong path. Whatever said or done here will not leave this room. I must have your word on this, before we go any further." As he said this he sheathed his sword and gave a meaningful glance at Nynaeve. Nynaeve simply thrust her chin out, and gave him that irritating stubborn glare. Cellorin sighed and looked back to Lan. "I do not relish teaching a man a quicker better way to kill people, so it is great reluctance that I am teaching you this."  
  
"I will keep my word, as long as it does not benefit the shadow. But under one condition. I will not kill Rand for you, even if he gets out of hand, Sword Bard.", Lan said firmly.  
  
"The cold is seeping into him, and he is welcoming it with open arms Diadem Battle Lord. The world will break worse than it should if he continues on his path of destruction. He will become as Aridhol and die of his own evil, if he is not brought back from the cold. Don't teach him until Cadsuane says he is ready. That is all I ask.", Cellorin said cryptically. 


End file.
